‘Woodman,’ snapped an American voice. The man sounded wired on coffee and adrenalin.
Scamarcio introduced himself, his addled mind slow to switch into English.
‘Jesus,’ said the producer, once he was done. ‘Your guy told our fixer that he had an important source, but I didn’t expect it to be you. You’ve got a helluva lot of people after you, Detective.’ Woodman paused. ‘Obviously, we’d be very keen to get ahead of the curve, but right now I’ve got no proof that you are who you say you are.’
‘I understand,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Can we meet?’
‘Can you get close to the Colosseum?’
‘Hold on,’ said Scamarcio.
He began walking down Via Cavour, motioning Basile to follow. There was a blue and green awning a few metres down, but Scamarcio couldn’t see any chairs or tables outside. Perhaps they hadn’t opened up yet. He drew closer and realised that it was a small boutique, not a bar. He kept on going, and soon enough spotted a small, somewhat dingy café. He peered through the glass and noticed that, while chairs were still up on tables and the lights were dimmed, there was a glow coming from a room out back. He guessed they’d be opening for the breakfast rush soon. ‘Bar Mirabel, Via Cavour. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘Is that far?’
‘No more than five minutes, but with the road blocks it might take longer. Come alone — don’t bring your fixer.’
Scamarcio didn’t want to hammer on the door, but luckily he didn’t have to. As they were waiting outside the café, the main lights came on, and a young man started removing chairs and wiping down tables. Scamarcio turned away to face the street. A few minutes later, the guy unlocked the front door, and Basile entered. Scamarcio followed a couple of minutes later. The crime boss had ordered them both cappuccino and brioche, and had found a table by the back wall.
The producer, when he arrived, was sweating, and his face was tight with stress. Woodman was tall and well built, with shoulder-length brown-blond hair and a greying beard. He seemed combat-ready in a tan jacket with a startling array of zips and flaps. On his feet was a pair of sturdy walking boots, and Scamarcio noticed a lurid green K-Way backpack slung over one shoulder. Scamarcio raised his palm in an almost imperceptible gesture, but the American spotted it straight away. He looked hesitant and slowly started to approach. Scamarcio knew that there was no way the producer could recognise him until he removed the sunglasses and cap.
‘Er, Detective?’
Scamarcio pushed up the glasses for little more than a second. Woodman’s expression morphed into shock, then relief, then back to stress again. ‘Good to meet you,’ he whispered, extending a quick hand. He sat down opposite and deposited the backpack on the floor by his feet.
‘I guess my first question would be, Why us?’ he said, reaching into one of the flaps on his jacket and pulling out a small leather-bound notebook and ballpoint pen.
‘Can you hold off taking notes?’ Scamarcio asked.
‘Sure.’
‘I didn’t choose you. The boy did.’
‘The boy in the café? They’re saying his name is Ifran Shebani.’
‘Yes, Ifran.’
‘And what does Ifran want from us? Your associate here,’ he motioned to Basile, ‘he told my fixer he had a source close to Ifran — he didn’t give us further details.’
Basile nodded at the wrong moment, and Scamarcio knew he didn’t understand.
‘Ifran asked me to bring you back to the bar this morning with a live link open,’ said Scamarcio, knowing the effect this would have.
As expected, the American gave a jolt. He rubbed his chin and said, ‘My bosses would never agree to that. It could be carnage — Shebani might be using us to broadcast his sick little snuff movie in real time.’
‘I don’t believe it’s that,’ said Scamarcio calmly.
‘Why not?’
‘What I’m about to tell you is off the record. I might allow it to go on the record later, but for now it’s between you and me — can you put the notebook away?’
The producer quickly did as instructed.
Scamarcio took a breath, and then began to talk him through his conversation with Ifran. But when it came to the DVD, he held back the finer details. ‘That DVD, and a photo that has come into my possession, lead me to believe that Ifran has been working for Italian intelligence. It’s also possible that US intelligence is aware.’ Again, he resolved to leave the Chechen right out of it — he didn’t want Woodman muddying the waters.
‘Holy shit,’ said the producer. ‘Is this for real?’
‘I think so.’
‘It’s one hell of an allegation.’
‘I know …’
‘But what would be the point?’
‘I’ll get to that.’
Woodman took a long breath. ‘Let’s get this straight: you’re telling me there was a DVD — in the exact place the boy said it would be — and that that DVD demonstrates collaboration between him and the intelligence services?’
‘That DVD suggested it. The confirmation came with the photograph.’
‘I’ll need to see that photo.’
Scamarcio had been expecting this, and turned to Basile.
‘Do you have my wallet and the picture?’ he asked in Italian. The crime boss nodded and lifted them from his inside pocket. When he handed over the photo, Scamarcio saw that the corners were now slightly crumpled. He passed it to the producer, who studied it closely. Wordlessly, Basile also handed across the DVD, and Scamarcio pocketed it while the producer’s eyes were still on the photo.
‘You made the copies?’ Scamarcio whispered.
‘Sure,’ murmured Basile.
‘That guy does look like the stills they’ve released for the boy in the café, but who is the big man with him?’ asked Woodman, laying down the photo.
‘Colonel Andrea Scalisi, head of AISE. That’s our foreign intelligence agency.’
‘I know what AISE is, but I don’t know this guy. I’ll need to verify the image.’ Woodman pulled out an iPhone from another of the flaps on his jacket and started tapping and scrolling. Scamarcio presumed he was running a web search for Scalisi. Soon enough, the producer seemed to find confirmation. ‘Damn,’ was his only reaction.
‘Happy?’ Scamarcio asked.
‘Not exactly …’ The producer ran a hand through his hair. ‘This is dynamite,’ he muttered, looking away.
‘In more ways than one. So, do you want the story or not?’
Woodman sighed and ran the tips of his fingers across his forehead, then scratched his neck. ‘But why is Ifran insisting on this live link?’
‘He wants to tell his story to the world. He thinks this will be his only chance.’
‘So what happened with his relationship with AISE? How did it go so wrong?’ Woodman stared at Scamarcio hard; he still seemed to be sizing him up.
‘I’m not convinced it did go wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It could be that the guy running Ifran wanted to arrive at this point.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I’ve just had quite an informative chat with some spooks at the British Embassy. The Brits seem to think that Scalisi and a few chums have an agenda — that they’re pushing for broader surveillance powers.’
‘Why the fuck would the Brits tell you that?’
‘That was my question, but it seems that they were looking for information — they showed me theirs, I showed them mine.’
‘Information on Ifran?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t believe they just let you go with half the world looking for you.’
‘They play by their own rules. Ally or enemy doesn’t seem to be a solid state.’
‘Hmm.’ Woodman sighed again and swore softly. After a few secon
ds spent staring into space, he rubbed beneath his nose and said, ‘How did you get the picture — I understand how you got the DVD, but you didn’t explain the picture.’
‘It was given to me by a guy who recently retired from AISE. He knew there was a shitstorm coming and wanted out before someone switched on the fan.’
Woodman kneaded his chin as if he was trying to sculpt it down, make it less prominent. ‘So, he took the photo before he retired?’
‘No, someone else took the photo. A guy who’d also left, for similar reasons — I met him last night. I believe him to be credible.’
‘Where is he, this photographer?’
‘In a village fifty kilometres from Rome.’
‘I’ll need to see him — I’ll need to verify the whole thing. That photo could be faked. They can do anything these days.’
‘You’re thinking about your story — all that will come. But we need to focus on the live link — that needs to happen soon. Ifran wants it by 9.00 a.m.’
‘Or?’
‘Rome burns.’
‘What?’
‘He says they’ve got a lot of other sites wired — that we could be looking at thousands of casualties.’
‘But how is that even possible?’
‘I’m just telling you what he said.’
‘How can I make the case for a live link if I haven’t corroborated my story? We can’t just go blindly in. Not that I believe my bosses would ever let it happen.’ Woodman looked at his watch. ‘It’s 6.45. Christ, I mean, it’s not like we even have any time.’
Scamarcio knew there was no way to get the producer to Calcata and back and the crew in place for the deadline. ‘He’ll come to you,’ he said before the thought had properly coalesced. ‘I’ll get my source to drive here.’
‘Well, all right,’ said Woodman sounding reluctant. ‘I need his name, his former position — I’ll need to start checking out his background.’
Scamarcio frowned. He understood where the journalist was coming from, but he was asking the impossible. Scamarcio nudged Basile for his phone and pulled out the card Letta had given him when he’d left to meet Federico. When the professor picked up, he sounded drunk on sleep. ‘So, you’re still alive?’
It was turning into a theme.
‘Federico took me to see this guy in Calcata last night. I need the pair of them to meet me in the centre, Bar Mirabel, as soon as possible — it’s an emergency.’
‘I thought I told you to back off, Scamarcio.’
‘I can’t; it’s not that simple.’
‘I can call Federico, but he might not want to take this further. He’s already gone out on a limb, and everyone’s jumpy.’ Letta said it as if he didn’t quite understand why.
‘Please, just call him.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘This friend in Calcata — you ever heard of him?’
‘I think Federico may have mentioned him once or twice,’ said Letta vaguely.
‘I need his name.’
‘I can’t give you a name.’
‘Letta, you’ve got to trust me when I say this is important.’
Letta whistled down the line. ‘At the end of the day, I don’t really know you, Scamarcio. I helped you with a case once, but that’s it.’
‘Trust your gut.’
The line fell quiet for a few moments before Letta said, ‘I know him as Alessandro — Alessandro Romanelli.’
‘And he worked for AISE?’
‘He worked for AISE — high up — with Federico.’
Scamarcio exhaled. ‘You’ve done the right thing.’
‘Only time will tell,’ said Letta before hanging up.
Scamarcio gave the details to Woodman, who immediately resumed pecking at his iPhone. Then he brought it to his ear.
‘What are you doing?’ Scamarcio asked.
‘What does it look like?’
‘No,’ said Scamarcio, trying to grab it.
‘I need to call my fixer to research Romanelli,’ hissed Woodman, trying to move out of the way.
‘Don’t!’ Scamarcio finally managed to prise the phone away.
‘What the hell?’ seethed Woodman.
‘It can’t get out that you’re looking at Romanelli. I don’t know your fixer; I don’t know who they might be talking to. Don’t you have another way you can find out about him?’
Woodman’s expression thawed ever so slightly. ‘I could use our Intel guy in the States, ask him to consult his international sources. But that’s a roundabout route.’
‘I’d rather that than alerting your fixer.’
‘People will know sooner or later that I’ve been asking …’
‘We’ll take the risk. Maybe in a few hours it won’t matter.’
Scamarcio handed back the iPhone, and Woodman shook his head, still put out. He placed the call and quickly supplied his contact with the details. ‘Get it back to me as soon as you can,’ he said before hanging up. ‘There’s an Intelligence Community database that he uses. He’ll run the name through that. If it draws a blank he’ll call his contacts.’ Woodman scrolled down his phone. ‘Google has no results,’ he said after a few minutes.
‘Not exactly surprising,’ said Scamarcio under his breath.
Woodman’s phone pinged, and when he looked at the message, he laughed. ‘That’s impressive,’ he said. ‘He’s sent me a file already.’
He scrolled down the screen. ‘There is a Romanelli who was with AISE.’ He turned the phone to Scamarcio. ‘Is this your guy?’
Scamarcio looked at the picture — it was indeed the same man he’d met in Calcata, but he looked very different in this photo. He was clean shaven in a dark suit and tie, and his hair was cropped short. His skin was several shades paler, and he seemed older and more careworn.
‘What does it say he did with AISE?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘It just says counterintelligence. Apparently, he joined two years ago; he’d been at AISI previously — that’s domestic, isn’t it?’
Scamarcio nodded. There was something bothering him about this information. Hadn’t Romanelli said that he and Federico went back a long way? Perhaps they’d known each other privately before AISE? Or perhaps Federico had also come from AISI?
Woodman was patting his jacket for his notebook again. ‘I’ll need to take some of this down, for background.’
‘OK,’ said Scamarcio, still preoccupied.
When he had finished, Woodman said, ‘I’m just wondering why you didn’t do this before — find out about this source?’
‘Mr Woodman,’ said Scamarcio, trying to keep his tone even, but finding his arm pushing up through the air anyway. ‘Until yesterday, I had no idea that there’d be a siege, or that I’d be right in the middle of it. When I got out from seeing Ifran, AISE all but kidnapped me. They seized my mobile, which has meant that I’ve had no access to digital information. Most of my time has been spent trying to evade capture. Where you come from, you might call that police obstruction or not cooperating with the authorities, but right now I can’t be sure that the authorities don’t want to do me serious harm.’ Scamarcio stopped. He’d been about to tell Woodman about the stunt Scalisi had pulled with Fiammetta, but then thought better of it. It was too private, and besides, he didn’t want to scare the man off.
Woodman spent the next forty-five minutes making numerous calls, squinting at his phone and scribbling. Scamarcio had already ordered two espresso and was starting to feel shaky and on edge. He could sense Nino Basile growing increasingly restless beside him.
‘My contacts will be here soon,’ said Scamarcio, worrying about the amount of time he was spending in one place. He’d thought about sending the crime boss away, but figured that a bit of extra muscle might come in useful. ‘Are your boys still at the cordon?’
‘Yeah — they’re wondering what the plan is.
Is there a plan?’
‘Sure.’
‘What is it, then?’
Scamarcio sniffed. ‘I’ll share it when the last pieces are in place. No point jumping the gun.’
Basile just shook his head, unimpressed. ‘And Greco?’
‘He’ll be in Rome next week,’ Scamarcio lied.
He noticed Woodman glance up from his notes, and when he followed his gaze, he saw Federico and Romanelli entering the café. They seemed irritated and curious by turn.
‘What’s the big emergency?’ asked Romanelli, eyeing the American with suspicion.
‘Haven’t you seen the news?’ said Woodman, looking him up and down, clearly struggling to match this dishevelled hippy with the photo he had just seen.
Romanelli frowned and pulled out a chair. Federico went to the bar and returned with two espressos. As he sat down, Scamarcio noticed that he looked quite nervous, definitely not as relaxed as he’d seemed just hours before. What or who has got to him? Scamarcio wondered.
‘So,’ he said, trying to stay focused, ‘this gentleman here,’ he gestured to Woodman, ‘is with CNN.’ He thought he noticed Federico blanch, but he pushed on. ‘He’s here because Ifran asked me to return with a live TV link open at 0900. He wants to talk to the world. I’m trying to persuade Mr Woodman to grant this request.’
Romanelli pursed his lips, then barred his arms across his chest. ‘There’s no way that CNN will agree to that. It could be horrific,’ he said in English. There was little trace of an accent.
‘Quite,’ said Woodman, under his breath.
‘Mr Woodman is very interested in the tale I’ve told him so far about Ifran and his relationship with AISE. But he needs to corroborate the story before he calls his bosses.’ He turned to Romanelli. ‘And that’s where you come in. You gave Di Mare the photo; you took that photo. We now know your former position, but we don’t know the circumstances surrounding that picture.’ Scamarcio turned to Woodman. ‘Is that the essence of it?’
He nodded.
Romanelli sniffed and pushed his glasses higher up his nose. ‘Didn’t we go through all this?’
The Extremist Page 18
